The valley had become a meat grinder.
The first rain of arrows had left not corpses, but remains.
Shields riddled with holes, twisted limbs bristling with arrows, and unlucky men pinned beneath fallen warhorses.
The thick stench of blood and the reek of the dying who had lost control of their bladders filled the air.
Amory Lorch's eardrums were still ringing.
That rain of arrows that blotted out the sky had burned itself into his retinas.
He hid beneath a few hastily assembled tower shields, his heart pounding.
"Charge! Heavy cavalry! Follow me out!"
He roared with every ounce of strength he had, yet his voice sounded so feeble in the valley.
A second thrumming answered him.
Deeper than the first, and more despairing.
The surviving soldiers instinctively looked up.
That familiar black curtain once again shrouded the narrow patch of sky above them.
This time, no one bothered raising a battered shield in vain.
Fear had drained them of all their strength.
A young Lannister soldier, his cheeks still covered in down, dropped his broken sword and fell to his knees in the mud, his mouth open as though he wanted to call for his mother.
The next moment, a dozen arrows pierced his body, pinning him to the ground.
The rain of arrows was endless.
This was no battle. This was an execution.
Those "archers" on the cliffs were not human at all.
They gave no battle cries, showed no fatigue, and held powerful bows.
Draw, loose, draw again, loose again.
Their sole purpose was to send every arrow in their quivers into the bodies of the living below.
"Demons... they're demons..."
An old soldier muttered to himself, abandoning all resistance as an arrow pierced his neck.
Amory Lorch's heavy cavalry ceased to exist as an organized force